


In A Big Round Bed, In A Little Blue Box

by Jenwryn



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Established Relationship, Multi, Post Season 5, Romance, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-03
Updated: 2010-07-03
Packaged: 2017-10-10 09:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rory knows the freckles, on Amy's shoulders, as if they were a map to his very own home; he's growing to know the shape of the Doctor's hand, just as well. (Post Season 5; spoilers for 5x13).</p>
            </blockquote>





	In A Big Round Bed, In A Little Blue Box

It doesn't matter how they get there; it only matters that they do. And, perhaps – just perhaps – the fact that it was Rory's idea. Maybe Amy had sown the seeds, yes, or maybe it was the Doctor's way of looking (looking, as if he really _saw_), sure, and maybe it had taken time to settle in Rory's mind – hesitant, questioning, touching at the distant edges of Rory's thoughts, languidly, almost, as the three of them had shouted and stumbled and smiled (and ran; always with the running) across the considerably larger distances of the universe itself.

Rory's surprised, when neither of them asks him to explain. He's also relieved. He doesn't, after all, really know the answers himself. Why things are how they are. Why he wants what he wants. Why his tangled emotions are more about needing, than about resenting. Why he warms inside, at the realisation that it's the same for all of them.

How it has come to be, that all he needs is here, in a big round bed, in a little blue box.

Amy mumbles against Rory's chest, some string of sounds strung so thick with sleep that they could mean anything at all. The Doctor shifts closer against Rory's back, his hair rough-soft and tickling; the fellow sleeps all curled up, Rory has learnt, all elbows and knees, and low in the sheets, so that sometimes Rory wakes to the feel of him breathing against his spine. Tonight – today – this morning – this whenever it is, where they've found themselves all sleepy and tumbled together, here in a life where clocks are arbitrary, and suns come and go – tonight, Rory thrives on the safety-net their bodies weave around him. He relaxes back, into the Doctor's hold; is content, when one of the Doctor's slender hands slide over his hip, as if that's where it has always belonged. Amy mumbles again, huffs in her sleep, and wriggles pushily against her husband, before settling, a sigh later, back down into quieter Amy-dreams.

Rory knows the freckles, on Amy's shoulders, as if they were a map to his very own home; he's growing to know the shape of the Doctor's hand, broad and gentle, as if it were a signpost along the very same path.

Around them, the TARDIS hums to herself, content and right.

And Rory smiles, safe and sure, and lets himself sleep.


End file.
